


The Cottage by the Sea

by Kitkatkimble



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, OCs - Kids, Sibling Fluff, Slow Build, Very Nico-centric, pretty much everyone is at least mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatkimble/pseuds/Kitkatkimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a cottage by the sea there lives a man. For all intents and purposes, he has been missing for seventeen years. Then, he was found again. This is the story of what happens after.</p><p>Because Jason Grace doesn't know when to leave people well enough alone, Hazel Levesque is fed up with her daughter not knowing her uncle, and Hestia... well, even goddesses have soft spots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cottage by the Sea

In a cottage by the sea there lives a man.  
  
The cottage, if it can be called that, is what strikes notice first. An eclectic mixture of an old man’s bachelor pad and a teenage boy’s hideaway place. It is worn, well loved, although the statuettes on the mantelpiece are lined up with such OCD perfection that it seems slightly eerie.  
  
The man, he is neither a teenager nor an old man, but somewhere in the middle. He is distinct, but unnoticeable; if you had walked past him in the street you would have paid him no more attention than a pigeon eating stray crumbs on the pavement. Oh, I am sure that if you took each of his features separately they would be striking, but the fact remains that he is forgettable.  
  
There are many people who are blessed – or cursed – with forgettable faces.  
  
It is, in the man’s case, slightly ironic, as he himself is not actually forgettable in the slightest; you may think that you have forgotten him, but then something or someone turns up and you are reminded viciously of who he was.  
  
Note I do not say is. We shall get to that in a moment.  
  
The man is perhaps thirty-one or thirty-two. He has a serious, rather melancholy demeanour which makes him seem older, and there is an odd clash in his mannerisms; he will collect toys like a child and then speak of the Second World War like a veteran. In some respects, he is.  
  
He is neither tall nor short. He is thin, but at the same time his clothes would give the illusion of a healthy weight. He dresses in black. He is friendly enough for people to remember him for it but not for them to consider him a friend.  
  
His name is Nico di Angelo.  
  
Nico keeps to himself. The cottage by the sea is also by a cheerful, bustling town, but despite this proximity he only ventures out to go shopping or, if you are very lucky, to eat out. As far as anyone in known is aware, he lives alone and has no visitors. If he has any family or friends, well, they’ve never seen hide nor hair of them, and isn’t it such a shame for such a nice young man?  
  
There are a few pictures on the shelves. Some are of people. Maybe those are his family and friends; they’re all at least fifteen years old, though.  
  
All of this, I hope, has given you a fairly good understanding of the man of the cottage by the sea.  
  
Currently, it is twenty minutes past eight at night, and the man who was once a boy is sitting in front of a careful, well-tended hearth. If you cared to feel his skin, you would notice that he was cold, colder than humans are meant to be, despite the warmth of the flickering flames.  
  
A stack of books sit on the coffee table beside the armchair, and a lines notebook rests in his lap. He frowns, concentrating. The first book, a child’s book of fairy tales, lies open and propped up by both his knees and a portion of one of the armrests. The book is simple, on perhaps a fifth grader’s reading level, but the writing is small and there are no pictures to aid with comprehension.  
  
A pair of reading glasses are perched on the man’s nose.  
  
He reads, very carefully, and writes the few words he cannot read easily or understand on the notepad. His writing is careful, precise. Each letter is perfectly formed and spaced, without links or joins to other letters; a child’s print.  
  
It is incongruous from a man in his thirties, but upon seeing the studious, determined look upon his face, one cannot help but encourage him in his efforts.  
  
The flames die down, and he gets up briefly to tend to them; the hearth is never empty in the cottage by the sea.  
  
It is nearing ten when he finishes his study of the book of stories. He does not stop there, though; he moves to one of his bookshelves – of which he has a surprisingly large amount, for one who appears so linguistically challenged – and takes out a dictionary.  
  
No, not an ordinary dictionary. An Italian to English dictionary.  
  
The book he had been studying so carefully was in Italian.  
  
He looks up definitions with the fluid air that comes with long practice. He peers at some closely, as if the words are difficult to read; in my experience, those with his bloodlines often have trouble.  
  
There is a knocking noise, and the man looks up in bemusement. It sounds again. Recognition follows.  
  
The book falls to the floor.


	2. The Man with Eyes Full of Sky

The cottage by the sea only has a knocker. The doorbell fell off and, having no visitors, the man saw no need to fix it.  
  
I am not familiar with the man who stands before it, although I know well enough who he is. He is tall, muscular, with blond hair that looks as though it was once in a very military cut but has been left to grow out until the next haircut, which may well be very soon. He wears a thick coat, with his hands in his pockets and a truly ridiculous pair of teddy bear earmuffs. He stands straight, but relaxed; this is how he usually stands, with quiet confidence.  
  
What are most striking are the man’s eyes. They are eyes full of sky.  
  
The door opens, very slightly.  
  
A dark eye peers out.  
  
Jason – the blond stranger, unless I am very much mistaken – smiles a little unsurely, but when the door opens further to reveal the man inside the smile solidifies into something sure and relieved and fond and somehow also slightly exasperated, all at once.  
  
“Nico?” he asks, making no move further to enter, respectful of the man of the cottage by the sea’s boundaries. “Nico di Angelo?”  
  
For his part, Nico looks shocked. He grips the door handle with one hand and the wall with another, in a semi-futile attempt to hold himself steady. Nevertheless, he sways on his feet.  
  
“Grace?” he asks, incredulous.  
  
Jason nods, smiling reassuringly, but less strongly than before; gentler. He makes no move to touch Nico, but looks as though he very much wants to.  
  
“May I come in? If you don’t want to see me, I can go, but I’ve been looking for you for a long time. I’d like to talk, if it’s not too much.”  
  
“I…” Nico swallows, and straightens. “No, come in. Can I… I mean, should I get you something to drink? Eat?” He pokes his head out a bit further, like a tortoise emerging from its shell, and checks the weather. “It’s snowing! I mean, it’s snowing; I can get you some coffee if you want.”  
  
Jason nods thankfully, and holds the door for himself as Nico disappears into the cottage. He looks around, taking in the neat but interrupted organisation of the various books, knick-knacks and other flotsam and jetsam in the front hall. Doors open off in all directions; the cottage is small, but it is open and free for a wandering visitor to explore without feeling as though he is intruding.  
  
He moves into the living room, looking through the books with idle curiousity. Nico returns shortly, waves him into a chair, and sits down. It does not escape Jason’s notice that Nico chooses the chair farthest away from him, judging by his quick glances towards the couch and little stool near the coffee table.  
  
“Why are you here?” asks Nico bluntly, having had time to gather his composure and return to his more normal, straightforward, demeanour.  
  
Jason hides a smile behind the mug of coffee; Nico hadn’t asked how he wanted it, but the café latte is actually very good. Just the right amount of caffeine and warmth to spark him up again, but not enough to stop him from sleeping for the rest of the week.  
  
The frank question, and the fact that Nico didn’t beat around the bush at all, brings back memories. Jason sets down the mug to answer.  
  
“You’ve been missing, for all intents and purposes, for seventeen years,” he says.  
  
Nico nods. It’s a simple admission of fact.  
  
“We, that is, pretty much everyone who knew you, thought it was high time you re-joined us, or at least gave us some indication that you’re still alive.” Jason looks Nico straight in the eyes; the earth meets the sky. “I know you said you were going disappear forever, but Piper and I, and Hazel and Frank – even Leo agreed –, we all think you should come back.”  
  
“I sincerely doubt that,” says Nico flatly. He looks down at his own little espresso cup, then towards the flames of the hearth. “Hestia tells me that Hazel’s going to have another child.”  
  
Jason’s eyes widen minutely, and he follows Nico’s gaze to my flames. “Yes,” he says, seemingly unshaken by Nico’s continuing connection to his family. “She and Frank are ecstatic.”  
  
“They’re going to need a bigger house,” Nico says, putting down his cup and picking up his notepad. He tears off a page, and Jason watches as he writes a reminder to himself to find Hazel and Frank a new house.  
  
“Wait,” Jason says slowly, events clicking into place. “So it was you? You were the one who bought them that house when they got married?”  
  
“Hazel is important to me,” Nico says quietly. “She deserves everything that I can give to her.”  
  
Jason looks around. He doesn’t ask how Nico can afford it, out of tact, but it’s evident that he’s thinking it. He changes the subject.  
  
“She deserves you. Don’t you want to meet your niece?”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Nico says. “I can’t. I…”  
  
Jason nods. “That’s okay. You don’t have to go to her. I’m sure, if you’d let her, Hazel would be able to come here.”  
  
He doesn’t say: she misses you.  
  
He doesn’t say: she’s desperate to know you’re alive.  
  
He doesn’t say: she’d come regardless of anything.  
  
Those things and more remain unsaid, but not unheard.  
  
Nico’s face is unreadable, but he is silent for a long while. Jason busies himself with his coffee and leaves Nico to his thoughts.  
  
“Maybe,” Nico says. He looks around at the cottage walls, slowly, thoughtfully.  
  
Jason nods. He won’t push Nico for an answer. “Do you have something to eat? Just a snack, even a muesli bar or something. It was a cold flight over, and long, and I’m running out of energy.”  
  
Nico stands up and points Jason towards the table. “I’ll make something warm. Sit.”  
  
Jason protests a little but eventually relents as Nico ignores him completely and takes his empty coffee mug. He agrees, but on the sole condition that Nico lets him do the washing up afterwards. With only one person in the house, Nico doesn’t have a dishwasher, so Jason’s offer is grudgingly accepted.  
  
As Nico unfreezes and warms up a thick vegetable soup, Jason updates him on seventeen years’ worth of news, which could probably be considered olds by now. Piper and Jason were married when they were twenty-seven, and had a son just four years ago and a daughter just last year. Piper hosted a large party on her thirtieth which was made famous by the number of pranks that she and Leo pulled on the guests; surprisingly, Calypso has turned out to be something of an evil genius when it comes to distracting people, so much that at one point, Leo and Piper both separately managed to scare poor Frank witless with dinosaur costumes while Calypso kept his attention.  
  
Speaking of Calypso, Jason briefly tells Nico of Leo’s quest to get her off Ogygia, and his eventual success. He got fed up after the first three years of his mechanical attempts failing, and instead he went straight up to Mount Olympus, got an audience with Zeus, and demanded that he set Calypso free.  
  
“Valdez is going to get himself killed one day pulling stunts like that,” Nico comments darkly.  
  
Jason shrugs. “He wouldn’t be Leo is he wasn’t reckless, hare brained and short sighted. He apparently made an oath to get her off the island; swore on the Styx.”  
  
Nico is pale already, but this revelation causes him to go even paler. “He did?”  
  
“I’m not kidding.”  
  
Nico purses his lips and shakes his head, but the hand stirring the soup shakes a fraction. “How is Reyna?”  
  
Reyna has been doing very well for herself. Jason describes the efforts she’s gone to in smoothing out the relations between Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-blood, and says that she’s also been doing guest lectures at the University of New Rome in leadership and management; all under the umbrella term of politics. She’s still regal and commanding, but she’s beginning to find that she can still have friends outside her role as praetor and leader.  
  
“Good,” says Nico, pouring the hot soup into bowls. “I can see her and Annabeth being good friends.”  
  
Jason deliberately has not been mentioning Percy or Annabeth, unsure whether or not Nico is comfortable talking about them. That Nico lives next to the sea has not escaped his notice, either.  
  
“They are,” he says. “It was the two of them who really worked out the politics and logistics of keeping the two camps running without having them at each other’s throats.”  
  
Nico moves over to the hearth with a plate of toast and tosses one in, murmuring something under his breath. He does this twice, then sits down and begins eating. Jason follows his example, muttering “Jupiter,” under his breath, and they eat in silence. The soup is good and hot, and the flames from the hearth are warm, and if you look closely, you can see the exact moment that Jason begins to feel at home.  
  
“What have you been doing, or is that private?” Jason asks.  
  
Nico shrugs. “I’ve done a lot of different things.” He hesitates, then plunges on. “I travelled for the first few years. I made some money doing odd jobs here and there; I wrote some tourism articles, which bought me this cottage. Once I moved here I worked for my father. There’s a little entrance to the Underworld near here.”  
  
“Hazel asked your father where you were several times and he always said that he didn’t know.”  
  
Nico sighs, rubbing his eyes. They still have dark smudges beneath them, which may just be because it’s eleven-thirty. “I begged him not to tell anyone anything about me. It was part of our deal.”  
  
Jason doesn’t know much about Hades (or Pluto) other than what Hazel and Percy have told him. Hazel can really only speak for Pluto, though, and Nico’s father is Hades. The Greek/Roman distinction is wide. All he knows is what Percy has told him.  
  
Jason likes Percy. They can rub corners a bit, but on the whole they get along well for children of the Big Three. He likes Percy’s company, and he can see that Percy’s a good guy, but sometimes he can be incredibly untactful. He’s heard Percy’s take on the curse of Achilles and the debacle surrounding that, but he’s never felt as though that did Nico or Hades justice; Percy is, to say the least, biased.  
  
“What’s your father like?” he asks. “What sort of things do you do for him, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
  
At first, Nico looks a little reluctant to answer. “Father is…” He trails off, searching for the right words. “Father is intense. He feels things very strongly, which can lead to him becoming very bitter or holding grudges for a very long time. But it works both ways. He loves very passionately, too, even though he mayn’t be able to express it freely. Him and Persephone… well. But what other demigod can say that they have a relationship with their godly parent, let alone a relatively good one?”  
  
Nico motions with his hands as he talks, illustrative gestures that remind Jason that beneath the introvert, slightly awkward exterior, Nico is still Italian. It strikes him about then that this is the most he’s ever heard Nico say all in one go.  
  
“I help him with a lot of logistical work, too, which always makes him friendlier,” Nico continues. “One year, we even got enough done that he could take an afternoon off. Can you believe that? I think that was the first time we got everyone to help, too; normally Persephone doesn’t do much and Demeter always protests that it’s not her job, but I convinced them to help.”  
  
There it is. Nico’s smile. It’s rare, but beautiful. He has Hades’ expressive, intense eyes, and with the slightest heartfelt smile they will light up like a firework.  
  
I can remember when he used to smile all the time. He would come up to my little fire in Camp Half-blood and smile and talk to me, making sure that I wasn’t lonely and showing me his toy game cards. That was twenty years ago, now.  
  
I am very grateful to Jason that he managed to make Nico smile like that again, even if it is small and accidental and a little insecure.  
  
At nearly twelve-thirty, Jason stands up and collects Nico’s bowl before going and washing the dishes as promised.  
  
“How long will it take you to fly back?” Nico asks, drying the plates.  
  
“An hour, maybe.”  
  
“Stay the night and leave in the morning. I haven’t got another bed but I can give you some blankets and a pillow for the couch.”  
  
Jason looks surprised at Nico’s offer disguised as an order, but accepts gratefully.  
  
“Just do me a favour,” Nico adds. “If you notice that the fire’s gone out, relight it.”  
  
Jason nods. They can both hear the crackle of the fire from the kitchen, and they let it fill the silence until Nico goes to bed, the door to his room shutting with a quiet click of the latch.  
  
Jason lies awake for a few minutes before getting up and making a piece of toast. He coats it liberally with strawberry jam before kneeling down in front of the hearth.  
  
“Lady Hestia, this is an offering for you,” he says and tosses it into the flames. “Thank you for looking after Nico and keeping him up to date with Hazel’s life. I know you didn’t do it for me, but I greatly appreciate it. Thank you.”  
  
I smile, and just briefly, I let the flames glow brighter.  
  
Between the two of us, and Hazel, we may yet get Nico to find a home among his family again.


	3. The Divisions of a Minute

The cottage by the sea was not built for two. It was built for a lonely fisherman, all the way back in the 1920’s, and it hasn’t changed very much since then.

Nico wakes early, despite the late night before, and peeks into the living room. He doesn’t venture in, just watches Jason sleeping in subtle disbelief.

Coffee wakes him up further, and the smell causes the sleeping man on the couch to wake as well.

Jason wakes like a soldier; quickly, instantaneously, and then reels back a little and almost falls asleep again. Nico wordlessly passes him a cup of coffee and perches on the same chair as yesterday. Jason gives him a sleepy nod of thanks and doesn’t talk either, just gets up and prods at the flames of the hearth.

Nico doesn’t make any move to initiate a conversation for a solid thirty minutes. There is an unreadable, closed, perhaps even cold air about him; the air of someone who has been let down by a lot of people and is trying to find justification to give another person the means to do so again. It is a very human form of optimistic cynicism.

It is also more than that, and in this respect, I can speak with authority. It is the dilemma surrounding the cottage by the sea. Is it wise to let other people taint the fortress of solitude, the lonely home that the man has worked so hard to achieve? Because it is either that, or to take himself away from his oasis of peace and back into the world that stole his childhood from him not once, but twice.

It is not a question which can be answered lightly.

Nico finally speaks just as Jason is ready to leave.

“Do you have a way for me to contact you? An email or something?”

Jason nods, and obligingly scribbles something on the paper offered to him. “Email me when you have an answer. It’ll be on your terms, don’t worry. And if there’s anything we can do, just ask.”

They part ways with little fanfare.

The man of the cottage by the sea sits down in his armchair and draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them in a rather childish posture. He just sits there, thinking deeply, and is only stirred by the chiming of an alarm clock from the kitchen. He’s due to go down to the lands of the dead and do what he can to help his father.

It occurs to him then, I think, that he had not asked Jason how he located his home.

The entrance to the Underworld is just inside a small copse of woods; they border onto one of the oldest cemeteries in the United States, which is why there is an entrance there, a back door, if you like. It is small, cramped, and devastatingly cold. The constant use of tunnels such as these is probably the reason why Nico has never grown particularly tall. 

The cottage by the sea is locked and Nico pocket the key, beginning the ten minute trudge up to the gateway. The snow from last night has left a thick layer upon the ground, as well as a chill upon the winter air, and the man shivers before he draws his coat closer around him.

He discarded the aviator jacket many years ago now, although it still hands up on the coat stand near the door. It fits him, now, which means that for anyone of an actually healthy weight it would be too small. It has been replaced by a long, thick black winter coat, which hands just up to the tips of his fingers ad swishes around him slightly when he walks. Sometimes, if he stands just so, he looks to be drowning in it.

He buries his hands in his pockets and ducks his head against the wind. The weather is always harsher next to the sea, but for a man who takes simple pleasure in metaphors, it is comforting.

That day, he asks his father whether Hades has said anything to anyone about his whereabouts.

“I would not break my deal with you,” Hades says. It is a testament to how fond he is of his son that he does not grow angry, particularly with his volatile temperament.

Persephone, in a rare display of affection, ruffles Nico’s hair. He makes no move to bat her away. “Perhaps they simply found a new way of searching. You can tell them to leave you alone, you know. I’m quite sure Jason Grace would comply, and Hazel… well, Hazel’s a good girl. So unlike her mother.”

Persephone would not be Persephone without the digs at Hades’ infidelity. Proserpine, for Pluto, the same would apply. (The gods never really recovered from the schizophrenia of Gaia’s war.)

“If you want, I could also turn you into a daisy for a month. They would definitely leave you alone then.”

Persephone would not be Persephone without the threats of temporary transfiguration, either.

“That will not be necessary,” Hades interjects. “Nico, come. There is a new project scheduled for the fourth that needs your attention.”

The coals in Hades’ hearth glow dimmer.

The cottage by the sea spends twelve hours a day, six days a week empty. Its occupant spends that time inspecting the machinations of the dead, re-arranging and smoothening out the lines of Judgement, and realising the details and finer logistics of Hades’ visions for the multitudes of spirits in Asphodel. It is dry and time consuming, a task that gets no more interesting upon repetition. The only respite, if it can be called that, is when sometimes, very rarely, the family of the Underworld sit down and have a civil meal and discussion together. I can recall the first, and I recall it because it was the first time that Nico referred to the Underworld palace as home.

He was also turned into a geranium by the end of it, which put a bit of a damper on things, but the man of the cottage by the sea has a lot of experience in being turned into flowers.

When he returns home again at eight, the fire in the hearth has gone out, and he rekindles it fondly. Dinner is toast. It is often toast. I think he is incapable of cooking after working, or perhaps eating. Either makes sense.

He sits, folding his entire body into the armchair and curling his feet up behind the cushions. He is far too skinny, too light and tiny to be thirty-one; I blame the toast.

For three hours, his attention rests on the battered book of Italian fairy tales. He does not annotate, not tonight, although he turns the pages slowly. There is a little crease between his brows, just above the bridge of his glasses, and when his hair falls in front of his eyes he does not attempt to push it back.

He twitches at every sound.

Eventually he tears his gaze away from the book and looks at the tiny piece of paper with Jason’s email address on it. It haunts the outermost region of his field of vision, a dark temptation that prophecies both joy and heartbreak.

He stands, slowly, unfolding from himself. Still, he looks permanently closed off, with body language screaming, “Go away, leave me alone, stay away and don’t touch don’t touchpleasedon’ttouch.”

Because touch breaks people. Touch is the physical manifestation of “I’m here, I’m not going to leave you, I’m staying and I care I care I care about you.” It dissolves walls, crumbles will. It makes things more real, somehow, although doubtlessly it is not the only deciding factor. Touch is one of the five human senses; you can be deaf, dumb and blind but you will never lose your sense of touch, of feeling, until you die.

An action speaks a thousand unheard words.

The cottage seems to wrap around the man like a blanket. He walks to his bedroom, shivering in his thin t-shirt, and gives the house a backwards glance before closing the door. It falls shut with a quiet thud, a final noise disturbed only by the crackles of the fire in the living room.

The snow continues to fall outside, littering the tiny veranda with flakes of white.

Then, at nearly one o’clock in the morning, the door to the bedroom creaks open. Then hesitates.

A long minute passes. It is twelve times five seconds, not two times thirty, or three times twenty. It feels larger, more drawn out.

Five seconds.

One to dare.

Two to plan.

Three to encourage.

Four to falter.

Five to reconsider.

On the sixty-first second, the door shuts with a barely audible click.

The next day is a Thursday. Nico wakes at six, has a bowl of cereal for breakfast – Demeter gives him a year’s supply each Christmas, which is kind of her but a bit of a pain – and inspects his chin on the back of his spoon. His stubble never seems to entirely disappear, except just after he’s shaved, but he can’t seem to grow anything more than that either. It makes him appear permanently scruffy. On the other hand, it hides the hollow of his cheeks well enough so that it only appears as a very fine pair of cheekbones.

He needs to shave.

He starts the daily trudge to work at seven-forty, just as the alarm goes off once again. He doesn’t forget to stoke the hearth, confident that the sparks will not accidentally start a fire in the cottage by the sea; his confidence is not misplaced. I would never allow it to happen.

He returns at eight o’clock at night.

The door to his bedroom shuts at eleven thirty.

It opens again at one.

A minute passes. Twelve groups of five seconds.

Then the door shuts again, on the sixty-first second.

This happens on Friday, and then on Saturday, and once again on Sunday.

On Monday, the cycle breaks.


	4. The Hand behind the Letter

Nico, the man of the cottage by the sea, is a predictable person. He works all week except on Mondays. On Monday, he goes shopping. First, he visits the supermarket and buys groceries, then to the grocer’s to buy fruit and vegetables.

He is idiosyncratic in this respect. He will either eat nothing but fast food (which usually consists of McDonalds’ Happy Meals, even after all these years) or he will make homemade meals with the best ingredients he can find. He prefers to cook Italian food, for familiarity, but sometimes he will branch out to other Mediterranean cultures: Greek, Turkish, Moroccan, Egyptian. Nico likes spices.

After having bought food, he will pick up coffee beans at the nearest – and best, in his opinion; he has said as much – coffee shop. They will recognise him, and the old woman at the counter will smile and pass him a little golden wrapped Gianduia chocolate along with the beans. He will protest, having not yet learnt that she refuses to listen, but will smile eventually and eat it on the way back to his motorbike.

He will lock his shopping in the back of the boke, then make his way to the bookshop. He will remain there, surrounded by words he struggles to read, for an hour. Then, he will either buy a book and have lunch in town, or he will buy two and return home to eat there.

He will exchange words with the owner of the bookshop, a cheerful old man, and his son, who is a few years younger than himself. Sometimes they will speak English, other times they will use Italian. It often falls to Nico to decide; he will either place the books on the counter with a quiet “Hello,” or an even quieter “Buongiorno.”

He will speak Italian when he is not feeling very sociable, because it means that other customers are unlikely to join in.

His parting words, in English, are always “Have a good day,” or perhaps a smile and a wave. In Italian, he will say “Buongiornatta,” or if he has loosened up a little he will wave and call “Ciao!” out over his shoulder. The moods of the man of the cottage by the sea are easily determined to one who knows his habits.

All of this, he does, chatting to the bookshop owner in Italian and buying two books. They are ‘If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller’ by Italo Calvino, and ‘Stardust’, by Neil Gaiman. He will have finished both by the time he buys more. He is not the fastest reader, not with his dyslexia, but he reads for hours each night. He has little else to do, I gather. Sometimes he goes out and comes back beaten up and covered in scratches. I think he fights monsters, as they do tend to pop up and attack nearby demigods. That he lives far away from any others is both a blessing and a curse; the only monsters around are those he attracts, but he has no backup when fighting them.

I apologise, I have strayed off topic.

Normally, the man of the cottage by the sea will spend half of his Monday afternoon reading and listening to music, and the other half cooking. In the warmer months he will cook outside, on a little chimenea on the veranda. Now, however, he cooks in the actual kitchen, filling the tiny sink with all manner of pots, pans and utensils.

Today, he arrives home, unpacks the shopping and sits down on his armchair with ‘If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller’. He has just opened to the first page, an English dictionary next to him (remember, this is the man who never went to school), when the little piece of paper once again catches his eye.

He stares at it, then puts the book down softly. His movements are unbelievably gentle.

He picks up the paper. It crinkles further in his hands, but the email has been written in a bold hand so as not to be erased easily.

He takes a deep breath, then exhales and squares his shoulders resolutely.

With light feet, he stands and takes out his laptop.

He writes.

He bites his lip.

He clicks ‘send’.

-

Jason Grace and Piper McLean live in a large house. It has a fireplace, unused, because fireplaces and small children do not go together. When Jason lit a fire in its hearth five days ago, Piper stared at him in disbelief and almost immediately demanded an explanation.

“For Hestia,” he said, as if it were the simplest and most obvious thing in the world.

It remained burning, although Jason and Piper were both very careful to keep Brendan and little Rebecca out of its way.

Jason checks his emails each night, munching on a slice of fruitcake leftover from Christmas. He does not seem disheartened by the prolonged lack of reply.

Piper comes down and sits beside him on Monday night, Rebecca happily sleeping for a change. Piper, the years have barely touched. She has tiny laugh lines creeping out from the sides of her eyes, and for a change her hair is tied up so it looks quite neat. She still cuts it herself; it is less choppy, yes, but home done nevertheless.

Jason loops an arm around her waist with easy familiarity and she leans over to steal the laptop and start it up.

“I still can’t believe we actually found him,” she says.

“It was Annabeth’s brainchild,” Jason says with a wry smile. “Of course it worked. I’m just sorry I didn’t try earlier.”

“Do you really think he’ll email?”

To be completely honest, Jason doesn’t know Nico very well, and he admits as much. “I understand a little bit about why he was how he was, and I can understand some of his motives, but… I don’t know who he is, no more than Hazel or Percy or Annabeth does.”

“If he says yes, Hazel’s going to die from happiness,” Piper says dreamily. “I just… oh, gods, how are we supposed to ask him to see Annabeth? And Percy?” The words, ‘they’re the reason he left, aren’t they?’ hang in the air, unsaid.

Jason bites his lip. “I don’t know, Pipes. But let’s just see if he’ll even see Hazel or me again.”

Piper signs into Jason’s email, and suddenly her eyes light up. “He replied!”

Jason straightens abruptly, watching with eager eyes as she opens the email and scans the text inside slowly.

It’s only once sentence.

“’Lunch, next Monday, just you’,” Piper reads aloud. Rather than be disappointed with the miniscule attempt at communication, a broad smile spreads across her face and she laughs delightedly.

Jason is less unrestrained in his joy, but he smiles widely and relaxes back against the cushions of the couch.

“He said yes,” he says, pressing kisses to the back of Piper’s neck. She twists around and kisses him hard, then grips him tightly and laughs into his shoulder.

“He said yes!”

He looks down at the top of Piper’s head and drops his chin onto it. “What should I say?” he asks thoughtfully. “Should I tell Hazel and Frank?”

“Yes,” says Piper immediately. “We’ll tell everyone, but tell them first. Then Reyna, then Percy and Annabeth, then Leo and Calypso.”

“Absolutely, Beauty Queen,” he teases lightly, and she punches him in the arm.

“Don’t call me that, that’s Leo’s thing. It sounds weird coming from you.”

They make plans. The fire in the fireplace dies down somewhat, and it isn’t until it’s almost out that Jason notices.

He rekindles it quickly, with Piper’s help, and finds another piece of fruitcake. He tosses it into the flames and says clearly, “Hestia.”

Piper hasn’t done this with him before, but she breaks his previous piece and tosses half in. “Thank you,” she says, although she does not know what she is thanking me for.

Truly, this was all their work. Annabeth, Jason, Piper, Percy. Hazel, Frank, Leo, Calypso even. They found Nico, and it was not thanks to any godly help.

But, I accept her offering, and the flames glow just that little bit brighter. Rebecca cries out from upstairs, and Piper turns to Jason with a smirk. “She’s your daughter.”

He groans and moves upstairs to try and get the eight month old to go back to sleep. “Why did we have another one?”

“Because you love me,” calls up Piper confidently, before curling up on the couch and pulling the laptop towards her. She taps the screen for a second then begins typing, writing the answer to an email never meant to be sent.

Or, perhaps, it was. Either way, Piper is going to let Nico know that Jason will be coming, and to give him a few warnings.

I know because Nico reads me the reply the next night. It says;

‘Nico,

First, this is Piper replying, not Jason, because he is upstairs putting Rebecca to sleep and anyway, he’ll probably just write something like ‘coming, see you then’, which is totally insufficient but he means well.

He is coming, by the way. Do you want me to make something for him to bring? His cooking sucks. My email is mcleaning.the.pipes@gmail.com, so if he gets on your nerves or says something he shouldn’t feel free to shoot me an email. I’ll give him a kick and tell him what he did wrong, if he doesn’t already know. But he shouldn’t, and if he does he’ll probably know what he did. Jason’s good like that.

Jason also told me that you made (or made and reheated at any rate) a soup better than mine. If, in fact, you did, then I have a stack of recipe books given to me by people who think I’m an adept cook, which I am not. You are. So, if you ever want to own a new cookbook, come to me and I’ll give you enough to make your arms drop off.

Seriously, I’m not kidding. I’ve got a shit ton.

Also, Rebecca and Brendan say hi. They’re eight months and four years old, in that order. Maybe you could come visit them sometime. Jason would probably wet himself in excitement, but don’t tell him I told you that. I mean it; not a word, di Angelo!

Hazel is just going to die when we tell her that you’re not dead and apparently accepting specific visitors. We haven’t told her and Frank yet; we thought we’d better check whether you preferred to remain in hiding or admit that you still exist. I’m going to call her after I send this, though, so she’ll at least know you’re alive. 

We haven’t told Annabeth anything yet. As far as she knows, Jason got the wrong house on Tuesday night and won’t make another trip until he’s sure his fingers aren’t going to drop off from frostbite. I think you should know that she was the one who started this project, she and Percy. We even gave it a name, Code Nico. Leo wanted to call it Code Freaky-Deaky, but he then accidentally blew up whatever he was tinkering with; I’m about 80% positive it was to hide a grin, and if it wasn’t, then it was because he got distracted by the idea.

See, I know you didn’t really enjoy my, Leo’s or Frank’s company that much, but… I know what you did in the final battle. Doing that for Jason and Leo… it was so brave. And you don’t just forget someone like you, especially not with everything else you did for us. So, basically, what I’m trying to say is that we miss you and we want to see you again and I think you’ll like your niece.

I’ll send Jason to yours on Monday at twelve with a nice bottle of wine; don’t worry, I know good wine from bad wine. Just tell me red or white and if I should make something, and you’ll see Jason on Monday.

Piper

P.S. Jason has just reminded me that RaRa hasn’t got a godfather. I’ll let you figure that one out. Me, I think we need to see a bit more of you first, but Jason’s got a soft spot for you, so I’ll think about it.

P.P.S. He also says that if you’ve actually taken up fishing he’s going to ‘take a long walk off a short pier and hug an octopus’. Basically I think he doesn’t want to eat fish for lunch, but if that’s what you’re cooking then he’s just going to have to stop being a baby and suck it up.

From, Pipes and Jason, with gurgles from RaRa and some sleep talking from Brendan.’


	5. The Lady of the Hearth

The cottage by the sea has become, in the last fifteen years, one of my favourite places. I enjoy sitting in front of its hearth and conversing with its occupant. I also enjoy its veranda, and the sound the roof makes when the summer breeze hits it just so. Sometimes, in the autumn, Nico will bring back chestnuts, walnuts and marshmallows, which is an odd combination but they all taste good after some exposure to the fireplace. We will sit together, reading or talking, and eat semi-burnt, amateurishly cooked snacks.

Nico has always been good to me, even before he knew who I was. I do what I can in return, but even though I am the last of the Olympians, I do still have business elsewhere.

Nico buries his head in his hands, the long fingers clenching among his dark curls. “Did I really do that? Why did I do that?!”

“Nico, it’s alright.”

He crumples the little piece of paper with Jason’s address and sighs. “I should tell Piper what to bring.”

“You need to decide what you are going to cook, first.”

He nods. “Do you want to help me decide what to cook?”

“I would like that very much.”

“I think Italian, but something to go with red wine. I prefer red. Or no, Spanish. I could make paella. But that’s better in summer and anyway, I don’t feel like rice…”

He wanders off into the kitchen to get the recipe books, muttering all the while. He comes back no longer talking, but carrying a pile of books which he divides in half and passes one lot to me.

“Hazel and Frank,” he says abruptly. “I should look up houses as well.”

He writes himself a reminder on the calendar. I smile at the intense focus that goes into making sure his handwriting is perfect. Nico, to people he is uncomfortable around, can be as dark and brooding and unsociable as his father. However, to most, particularly those he knows well and likes, he is a very caring, rather nervous young man who will spend countless hours forcing himself to focus on one thing. The cottage by the sea is highly conducive to such period of focus, due to its calming, orderly atmosphere. Despite Nico’s inherent ADHD, he does have a strange ability to become terribly goal driven.

Quite some time passes, and after a long period of silence, I look up to see Nico curled up on the couch, fast asleep. Unconsciously, his hand clings to the pillow that still hasn’t been moved from Jason’s visit last week. He looks much younger than thirty.

I stand and kneel down on the floor beside him, just watching over him for a while. His hair falls in his face as he shifts in his sleep and I brush it back lightly.

The man of the cottage by the sea does not, contrary to what would likely constitute as popular opinion, sleep like the dead. He sleeps fitfully, his mind preoccupied with visions of the many things he has seen in his life; above ground, in the Underworld, and in Tartarus. His brow furrows, even in sleep, and if one is quiet then his little whimpers can be heard on a particularly bad night. These, as far as I am able to tell, are not often, perhaps once or twice a month; they often occur close together if there is more than one.

Tonight, apparently, if a bad night. Nico turns towards my hand, fingers twitching slightly. I smooth his brow. I cannot do anything to help him with my powers, but I can be there for him, so I give him my hand and let him clutch it until he falls back into a deeper sleep.

I leave him then.

However, there is still a small part of me which wishes to further peruse his recipe books, and so I resolve to return tomorrow night.

The cottage by the sea is as silent as the grave for the remainder of the morning.

Nico wakes at six and shaves, which is good because he sorely needs to. He leaves at seven-thirty and returns at eight in the evening, as per usual.

“Father is in a bad mood again,” he says wearily to the hearth, meaning it is directed to me. I always have an ear open for Nico. “He changed the judges at the lines, thinking it would ease the traffic, but it really hasn’t. And I got sent to man the Fields of Punishment while they do repair work.”

He stops talking and sighs. “I hate the Fields of Punishment. No one deserves that.”

He stops, then revises his sentence. “Nobody except serial murderers and rapists. They can stay.”

He has eggs on toast for dinner. By association, so do I. Then, he gets out the recipe books and sits down in front of the hearth, sets half aside, and continues searching through his pile.

“Would he like Ossobuco? It’s hard to make, but it’s good in this weather. Or I could cook cannelloni. I like cannelloni, but Jason might not. Too rich. Agnolotti?

“Actually, that’s not such a bad idea.” He flips through the books until he finds one on sauces. He has some very specific books. He idly stokes the hearth as he reads aloud snippets of the recipes.

“I’ve never made agnolotti. I’ve made ravioli, though, and they’re pretty much the same thing. I could do half meat, maybe veal, and half… ooh, half pumpkin. And a bit of walnut. Would that work? If I do them smaller, maybe. I’ll cut the pasta about thirty-six by thirty-six, then have half a tablespoon of filling. It sounds a bit small. I’ll figure it out tomorrow night.”

He opens another book. He often talks aloud to me, which I think is just because if he talks to no one he feels as though he is going mad. There is not a lot of conversation in the Underworld, except for giving orders, I have been told. “And then secondi piatti… red meat, maybe beef. That’ll go well with the red, and then I can do something light for dessert. I like ice-cream… but I’m not sure Jason will eat ice-cream in winter. Anyway, that’s too stereotypical and I can’t make ice-cream. Um… panna cotta? Or should I do something warm?”

This goes on for quite a while. Eventually, he settles on agnolotti (with veal, pumpkin and walnut; he couldn’t choose between them) with a sauce that he hasn’t chosen either, roast beef with a tomato and eggplant sauce, and chocolate lava cake; after all, everyone likes chocolate lava cake.

Friday, Saturday and Sunday night pass in a haze of shopping, cooking and worrying. The man is perfectly capable of maintaining an unreadable persona around company – in fact, it is generally his accepted personality – but in the privacy of the cottage by the sea he is as open and readable as a child’s picture book.

He is also very detail orientated. Each agnolotto has to be the same size and weight; all the vegetables have to be evenly cut; if one of them is wrong, it is discarded completely.

He passes out at perhaps one or two in the morning on Monday. Luckily he has an alarm set for seven-thirty, which wakes him up admirably.

He jolts back into consciousness immediately, looks around, and descends into a little panic attack. 

“Oh, gods. Oh, gods, Jason’s coming at twelve. Oh, no. Okay…” He runs his hands through his hair and closes his eyes briefly. “Finish preparing the food. Tidy the house. Have a shower.” He checks his reflection in the window. “Shave. Okay, you have four hours. You’ll be fine. It’s just Jason. It’s just Jason. He knows you and he doesn’t hate you. It’s just Jason. You can do this.”

Then, with the determination and resolve that led him to Tartarus and back, he sets about preparing in a whirlwind of activity.

He finds his biggest problem in locating matching, relatively formal silverware. In the end he manages to find some nice wine and water glasses left over from the previous tenant fifteen years earlier, a tablecloth which is technically a bed sheet (which meant he didn’t have to find matching placemats, thank the gods) and matches the cutlery as best he can.

He gives the leftover food from the preparations to me, and sends up a prayer as well.

The irony is quite considerable. The gods are the ones who are the primary source of grief in his life, and yet he is possibly the most sincerely reverent demigod I have met. To be fair, I have not met many, but even so, the point still stands.

I like the man of the cottage by the sea.

He goes into the bathroom as highly strung as a fiddle and comes out cold and composed, but the mask hasn’t quite settled over his eyes yet. It takes time to put up walls as strong and tall as those around his heart; Rome wasn’t built in a day, as they say.

He sings under his breath as he tidies the living room and kitchen up. Just little snatches of phrases, never anything entirely. Something in English, something in Italian, something in Ancient Greek. If the speed at which he changes tune is anything to go by, he is entertaining thoughts at a million miles an hour.

He is just drawing the bread from the oven when there is a knock on the door. It echoes with military precision, steady and even, and Nico almost drops the tray.

He cuts the bread with steady hands, places it on the table with the olive oil, and goes to let Jason in.

Piper’s email haunts his thoughts. She was so cheerful, familiar and playful in a way he wasn’t expecting. He wonders if she really did end up sending Jason along with any food. He had tentatively replied that she didn’t need to, but he doesn’t know Piper that well. She could have anyway.

He mutters all of this in a dry voice to my hearth on his way past; dry from humour, and dry from nervousness.

“Do I look respectable?” he asks, but he doesn’t leave time for a response before moving away to open the door for the son of Jupiter.

He does look respectable. Skinny and a bit stand-offish, but still seeming to say ‘I am a strong, independent young necromancer who don’t need no pity visits’. Not that different from seventeen years ago, to tell you the truth. Nico has grown up in height, but in his attitude to people he doesn’t trust? Not so much.

As it turns out, Piper has sent Jason along with homemade whipped cream, which was quite clever of her. I do so enjoy being surprised by demigods, even if it is something as simple as this.

Nico leads Jason into the living room and to the dining table. It fits two nicely, and Jason admires the bread hungrily.

“Did you bake this?” he asks curiously.

Nico nods, gestures randomly, and moves off into the kitchen to get the first course, the primi piatti, ready. “Try some,” he says, his voice quiet but wafting through the small cottage regardless.

Jason does.

“It’s good!”

There is the faintest hint of a smile in Nico’s reply.

“Buon appetito.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry for the food porn


	6. The Man with the Porcelain Soul

The cottage by the sea smells like chocolate and red wine, a heady combination that would indicate sheer hedonism if it weren’t for the fact that the only occupants are Nico di Angelo and Jason Grace, neither of whom are associated in any way, shape or form with the term.

“I don’t understand,” Jason says, leaning on a hand propped by his elbow and idly moving his spoon around the whipped cream by the side of the chocolate cake. “You don’t like me – or at least, you didn’t used to – but you go to all this effort to make me feel, well, welcome. Why?”

Nico hasn’t touched his dessert, preferring to examine the whipped cream and check for cheese at the bottom. (No, I don’t understand what that means either, but Frank Zhang says it occasionally.) He looks up, gazing at Jason thoughtfully.

“Because I grew up,” he says simply. “I…”

He falls silent, struggling to find the words. Their lunch had been filled with easy talk, mostly on Jason’s part, but it had been all about mundane little things; the summer last year, Brendan’s first words, the collection of books that Nico has amassed. They had studiously been avoiding serious discussions.

“Because I never said thank you,” Nico eventually says, “and I should have. But I was fourteen, and everything was going wrong for me, and… well. This is my thank you.”

Jason shakes his head. “It wasn’t more than I would have done for anyone else.”

“Don’t make this harder on me, Grace.” Nico gestures vaguely, as though he has to do something with his hands but has no idea what. “At that point, being included in ‘anyone else’ was practically a compliment. Still kind of is, but that’s only because I spend twelve hours a day ordering the dead around, and ‘anyone else’ is a lot more interesting. Look, you treated me like an actual person, and I appreciate it. So, thank you.”

Jason smiles, although there is something lurking in the back of his eyes that hints that he hasn’t entirely dropped the topic. “You’re welcome, for what it’s worth. Anyway, I don’t suppose you bake brownies, do you? Because if this cake is anything to go by…”

Nico blinks. “I haven’t tried. I don’t eat brownies.”

The blond gives him a pitying look, and Nico promptly raises an eyebrow elegantly and adds, “Would you, if you could cook a lava cake like this?”

“Point taken.” He finishes it enthusiastically, appearing to set aside talking in favour of the molten delight on the plate in front of him.

Nico watches him in quiet amusement, pushing his own plate towards Jason when he finishes and looks disappointed. 

“When did you learn to cook this well, anyway?” Jason asks. “Me and Piper try, but… well, let’s just say that anything more complicated than pasta or a stir-fry generally isn’t a good idea.”

“One of the women in town runs a cooking class. She started twelve years ago. Demeter kept telling me that fast food wasn’t an option for a diet, but Persephone was the one to actually tell me to go and learn how to cook. It was either that or get turned into whatever flower she liked at the time, so… I signed up, and it was interesting so I kept going.”

“Maybe I should go find one,” Jason says. “Piper’s always getting on my case about how badly I cook.”

“I know.” Nico smirks a little, glancing towards his laptop. The message is obvious; he remembers Piper’s email.

“At least I’m still better than Leo and Frank,” Jason adds, sitting up straighter. “Don’t ever eat anything they cook. Actually, you can eat Leo’s Mexican stuff, but nothing else. Never ever eat the pancakes. Ever.”

Nico leans forward in his chair, shifting position so that his legs are tucked under him and the bowl of whipped cream just underneath his spoon. He nods once, prompting Jason to launch into an anecdote about that one time Frank made pancakes and thought that the box of white stuff next to the cooking oil was sugar.

“That’s disgusting,” he says critically at the end. His tone is thoughtful, analytical, as though this was some deeply thought out conclusion that he had reached after a long period of contemplation.

Jason sputters and starts laughing. “It was! It was the most revolting thing I’ve ever tasted.”

They waste time talking about nothing, moving from the table to the front couch. This time, Nico sits nearer to Jason, perched on the arm of the couch with his feet on the cushions and his arms either side of him, propping him up. Jason sits lazily, one foot under his leg and his arm over the back of the couch. They aren’t close, there’s still a good two feet or so of distance between them, but they’re relaxed enough in each other’s company that it no longer looks nervous and awkward.

“That’s the strangest part about Jason,” Nico will say to me later. “Even if you try your hardest to hate him, it never works. He’s… comfortable.”

You can see why he would say that, just by looking at the easy way Nico talks despite having only met Jason again recently.

“Nico, I have something I want to ask you,” Jason says, more serious than before. Nico gives him a slightly nervous look, as though he recognises the tone and isn’t looking forward to the forthcoming question. “When you left, you said it was because of Percy, as well as a lot of other events. But mostly Percy. But that wasn’t true, was it? If you had just left because of him, you would be back with us by now.”

Nico pales, the pallor standing out starkly against the warm glow of the coals of the hearth. He stiffens imperceptibly, stilling so that he looks like an alabaster statue.

Jason turns to face Nico fully, his legs coming up to sit crossways on the couch. “I know when you left you told Percy it was because you hated him. I know because Percy was an absolute wreck, after. But that gave me an idea. You lied twice, that day.”

“Grace, stop,” Nico says, sounding as though he’s speaking from far away. Faint, wavering.

“The first was that you hated him, and we both know that was a lie. The second was that he was the reason you were leaving.”

“Grace!”

“It wasn’t him you hated.” Jason’s voice is soft, gentle.

“Jason, please!” 

Jason stops talking, reaching out a hand towards where Nico sits. The younger man has pulled his hands up into the sleeves of his shirt, his body language visibly drawn inwards and away from Jason. Strangely, he doesn’t attempt to move away from his precarious perch on the sofa’s arm.

Nico eyes the proffered hand warily, his eyes darting to Jason’s face. Jason, for his part, looks certain, but kind and gentle. Not unlike the way you would approach an animal that you didn’t want to scare away, but instead desperately wanted to help.

“You hated yourself,” Jason says, very quietly, but it is evident that to Nico those three words were as terrifying as the encounter with Eros had been all those years ago. He flinches, visibly.

Then, a change washes over him, and he draws his head up to stare directly at Jason in the eyes. Jason clearly isn’t expecting it.

“Yes, I hated myself,” he says, almost condemnatory, throwing the words into Jason’s face. “Wouldn’t you, if you were in my place? No matter how many times I told myself I was a good person, that I was a person who someone could call a friend, the world constantly kept showing me that those were lies.”

Jason’s hand doesn’t waver. “You still hate yourself, though.”

Nico laughs hollowly, and suddenly he looks just like the scared teenager he was in Croatia. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m doing perfectly fine, with or without it. I have a home, a job, a family that gives me presents on Christmas. Does it matter how I think of myself?”

“Yes, it does.” Jason gestures around them with his free hand. “When you wake up in the middle of the night, nightmares and memories messing around with your head, who is here to help you? Who’s here to tell you that it’s alright to be afraid? Whose number can you call when you need someone to tell you that you’re no longer alone in Tartarus anymore?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Because you’ve got no one to give you one that blocks monsters.”

Nico glares at Jason, who stares steadily back at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re my friend. I just want you to accept me as one of yours.”

The man of the cottage by the sea is shaking. He stares Jason right in the eyes, and in this moment his relation to Hades is obvious. His eyes burn, a dark fire from within that makes them glitter with a thousand shadows.

Slowly, with movements so unbearably gentle, Jason stretches his hand out just that little bit further.

Nico doesn’t tear his gaze away. Instead, he tremulously reaches up and out and with a slow curl of long fingers, he grasps Jason’s hand. His grip is light, but tense. 

“If you betray my trust,” he says, and his voice is so intense and ominous that the hairs on the back of Jason’s neck stand on end, “I will reserve for you a special place in the Fields of Punishment; and I can do that with nothing but a click of my fingers.”

“You won’t need to,” Jason says earnestly.

See, this is what constantly fascinates me about humans. They have such an immense capacity to love that it truly takes my breath away. It is as though seventeen years of separation never happened, as though they were nothing but two young men who had suffered a brief dispute, but then smiled and embraced once again. Humans forgive, and take such risks with their hearts and their emotional well-being that gods could never bring themselves to even consider.

As for Jason Grace, I consider him an anomaly even for mankind. The risk he took in confronting Nico was inestimable; it could jeopardise the future of ‘Code Nico’, as Piper referred to it. Yet, he recognised that if Nico were to face the others again, he would need to do it in a way that he held no grudges, not even against himself. Hades’ family’s fatal flaw is often fatal in more than one way, you see. Nico could not, cannot, forgive himself for being himself, which almost turned out to be his death; he placed such little value on his life that he was willing to sacrifice it instantly.

Nico and Jason regard each other quietly, until Jason smiles at him.

“So, friend, I don’t suppose you have that recipe for chocolate lava cake, do you? Because I think Piper will marry me again if I bring it home to her.”

Nico smiles, very slightly, and it is more obvious in his eyes than it is on his lips. “What’s in it for me?”

“My eternal gratitude?”

“I got that for introducing you to it, didn’t I?”

“Very true.” Jason taps the bottom of his chin thoughtfully. “How about I talk to Piper and bring Brendan over for lunch next Monday?”

Nico drops Jason’s hand abruptly. “What?!”

“Of course, I’d have to come with him, because there’s no way I’m going to leave you to his mercy, which means that you’d have both me and him over for lunch.”

“I can’t have your son over for lunch!” Nico shrieks, although he will protest later that it is not a shriek, it was perfectly manly and grown up and he’s not a teenager anymore, cut it out.

“Why not?”

“Because, because…” He sputters, waving his hands around. “I just can’t!”

“He’d love to see you.”

“That’s crazy!” He drops down to sit properly on the couch, right in front of Jason, and stabs a finger at him. “He’ll take one look at me and start bawling his eyes out!”

“He’d hug you until you can’t breathe afterwards.”

“That’s worse! I’ve had enough asphyxiation for a lifetime!”

“Well, you’re getting some more.” Jason smiles widely. “Admit it. You want to see him.”

Nico stares at him before throwing himself down and burying his head into a cushion. He mutters something which sounds suspiciously like, “Spare me from the ineptitude of big blond idiots.”

Then, in an actually audible voice, he says, “If this is what being friends is like, I want no part in it.”

“Tough luck.”

Minutes later, Nico is shooing Jason back out of the door of the cottage by the sea. Jason is bundled up once again, including the teddy bear earmuffs, which Nico eyes with no small measure of bemusement before turning his gaze back to Jason’s face.

“Oh, yeah, and before I forget,” Jason says, snapping his fingers. “Do you want to meet your niece as well at some point? Because something tells me you’re going to.”

Nico blinks, then nods slowly. “I’d like that.”

Jason grins, wide and honest. “Good. I’ll tell Hazel. And get a decent night’s sleep tonight, okay? Don’t pass out again.”

Nico jerks, surprised, but before he can say anything Jason has gone. 

He pads inside again, sitting down right in front of the hearth and tossing another log of firewood into the flames. “Someday,” he says, and a little smile spreads across his features, “Jason Grace is going to be the death of me.”

I don’t doubt him in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering why Nico’s reactions are so different, it’s because I wanted to show two different types of anger. One stemming from depression and hatred, and one from nervousness, although he’s secretly pleased.


	7. The Bowl with the Ruby Glaze

The cottage by the sea, as it has been pronounced to be before, is not the only place where I occasionally inspect the hearth. The palace of the Underworld, while not technically my territory, has a hearth. It is considered a home to the family of Hades, and so it is part of my domain.

I have seen many families in my time, however the family of the Underworld is one which I confess I find very interesting. Never let it be known that I admit this, but Hades truly is more of a father and husband than either Zeus or Poseidon ever was. Oh, I am not saying that my brothers are bad family men (To an extent. Zeus was never known for his fidelity.) merely that they simply do not have the same attitude that Hades takes.

I believe it is because Hades truly knows the value of family. 

Do not laugh! No, do not laugh. Perhaps it has not occurred to you, but Hades never broke the Oath, not in either of his forms. What is more, he tried to protect the family who were in danger of being killed from that oath; if he had not, the cottage by the sea would not have my blessing now.

Furthermore, Hades and Demeter never got along well. There is bad blood on both sides, grudges and actions which both still remember. However, during the Second Titan War, Hades sought to protect Demeter within his realm. He recognised that she was part of his family, and followed his tenets: protect your family, keep them close, do not let them suffer ill. Having those core beliefs thrust back into his face was what started the rivalry between the Elder Three in the very beginning.

It must be said, however, that despite having noble beliefs, his methods of implementation are rarely as such. He is the Lord of the Dead, and the dead do not suffer moral complexes the same way the living do. After all, what does it matter what a dead person does? They have already been judged.

This is Hades’ belief. Why does it matter how he conducts his affairs, when his brothers have already judged him?

There are faults on both sides, but perhaps this will give you an insight to Hades’ mind.

“Nico,” says the god himself one morning, just as Nico is making his way up to the throne room in the palace.

“Yes, Father?” Nico asks, coming to stand before the throne. He looks tiny in the large room, a black smudge among… more black smudges. Perhaps that was not the best analogy. I am not Athena nor Apollo, forgive me.

“The Underworld does not have leave,” says Hades, steepling his fingers and regarding Nico over the tips. 

“No.”

“Nor does it grant favours.”

“No.”

“However.” Hades pauses. “Your birthday is approaching. I am not in the habit of granting gifts, and this year shall be no exception. However, Lachesis, Aeacus, and Melinoë have all been highly impressed by your work and dedication, and have impressed upon Persephone that you are deserving of some merit of service.”

“That’s not necessary – ” Nico protests, but Hades sails on.

“In return for your hard work, I am considering granting you fifteen days, one for each year of service you have provided me. You may use these days whenever and however you wish. Do you accept my offer?”

Nico is silent, then nods and bows slightly. “I do. Thank you, Father.”

Hades nods regally, then stands and strides down from the throne and towards the great doors, gesturing for Nico to follow him. “Now, there are several matters which I would appreciate that you address…”

The Lord of the Dead and the King of Ghosts leave, and the hearth burns ever on.

-  
The next meeting near the hearth of Hades is between Nico and Persephone, who is in residence over the winter and does not look nearly as torn up about it as one would expect.

Nico and Persephone’s relationship is a rocky one. I try not to think about it too much, because even for one who deals with matters of family, I cannot for the life of me comprehend the two.

“Lady Persephone,” Nico says, and there is the tiniest hitch in his voice at the beginning that betrays his nervousness. “Are you busy?”

She looks over at him, tearing her gaze away from the beautiful ceramic bowl in her hands. “No, I am not.” She gives the bowl a glare and throws it down, letting it join its sisters among the shards on the floor.

Nico approaches warily. “What are you doing?”

“I am redecorating,” she says lightly. Persephone picks up a Chinese vase and admires it for a second, before tossing it over her shoulder and giving Nico her full attention. “Hades’ taste in ornamentation is sorely lacking.”

“Those have been there since I can remember.”

“Then it’s high time we did something about them, isn’t it?”

Nico blinks, then comes forward a little further, picking up a dish. Persephone watches him as he turns it around in his hands, running long fingers over the glaze work. Then, with a quick glance at his stepmother, he lets it fall to the floor.

She nods approvingly, and sets about breaking more elegant porcelain as Nico tidies up the shards on the floor.

“How are you planning to use your new free days?” she asks, picking up a shard and examining her reflection in it. “I hope you’re not going to go on one of those quests again.”

The way she says ‘quests’ is similar to the way a high society lady would point out dog poo on the floor.

“I hope not,” Nico says.

“Are you sure? Because my pomegranates are not ready yet, despite what my mother says.”

“I’m sure. I’ve still got three seeds.”

“Good. Hades would be in such a foul mood if he found out that you had died. Fouler than usual, I mean.”

The family of the Underworld have such a strange way of expressing affection. I honestly do not understand it.

Persephone looks down at the bowl in her hands. It is small, but comparison, with blood red enamel creeping up the sides. It looks as though it was used for sacrifices, although there is a haunting, captivating beauty to it that belies the initial horror. 

“This is old,” she says, tilting it up to the light. “I am surprised Hades kept it.”

Nico looks over. “What is it, my lady?”

She turns it upside down and examines the back, which has the echoes of figures etched onto it. “This is not from the Greek pantheon. None of our work is done so crudely.”

“This is crude?” Nico peers at it. I do not believe he knows anything of art.

“Highly. Look at this brushwork, here.” She leans in, pointing out the strokes. They look similar, oddly enough; two dark heads of curly hair, leaning in together. It speaks volumes for how their relationship has improved with time. Now, they could almost be mistaken for blood relations.

It should appear also that Hades most definitely has a ‘type’.

Persephone gives the bowl one final once-over and passes it to Nico. “Here. Give it to Hazel or someone, or keep it for serving meals.”

“Really?”

Persephone shrugs, already picking up another vase, which she promptly drops on the floor. “I don’t care. It’s not Greek.”

Nico looks down at it, running a finger along the glaze, before placing it to one side. “Alright. Thank you.”

They continue to smash pots, even though technically it is nearing nine o’clock. Nico should make his excuses and leave, but something keeps him there.

He sits back, staring at the salt and pepper floor. “Are you going to put new ornaments in?”

“I suppose,” says Persephone idly. “I think I will put some vases of flowers on the shelves. My mother would like that, and Hades would like it but he would pretend that he didn’t.”

“Are you… are you angry at him?”

She pauses. “No,” she says after a moment of thought. “I am pleased. But I don’t want him knowing that I played him like a piano, so I am going to irritate him. Plus, the make-up sex is – ”

“That’s good,” Nico says hastily, because there are some things that he does not need to hear involving his father and his stepmother. Ever. Just because it happens doesn’t mean he needs a description. “I’m glad you aren’t angry at each other.”

“Are you angry at him?” Persephone asks, turning her dark eyes to his. “Or are you angry at me?”

“I…”

“You are a little bit angry, I can see it in your eyes.” She peers closer. “Oh, don’t do that, I won’t bite.”

Nico glanced away awkwardly. “I’m just a little frustrated at Jason at the moment.”

She draws back. “Oh,” she says, bored. “Hera’s little champion. The blond one. He’s the one you almost died for, isn’t he?”

“I didn’t ‘almost die’,” he protests. “I was just a little bit dead.”

Persephone raises an eyebrow. “I am the Queen of the Underworld. You almost died.”

“I got better.”

“Yes, I suppose you did.”

“Anyway, I didn’t do it for him. I did it for the war.”

Persephone waves a hand. “Whatever, I don’t care. Don’t do it again, though. As I said before, Hades would not take your death well. Do try to avoid it.”

“I promise that I’ll try not to die,” Nico says dryly. “I swear on the Styx.”

The tone of his voice may be humourous and wry, but the oath is anything but. Nico means everything he is saying. It is also evident that he sees straight through Persephone’s bluff and sees it for the hidden worry it is, hence the oath. The man of the cottage by the sea is very good at keeping his oaths.

“You didn’t have to go quite that far,” Persephone says, sniffing. “A simple ‘Yes, Persephone’ would have been perfectly acceptable.”

“Yes, Persephone.”

“There. You don’t have to be so serious about these things.” She surveys him thoughtfully and then shrugs, brushing off whatever thoughts had been going through her mind. “Your father is the same, though. I can’t say it’s entirely a bad thing, but remember that you don’t have to please everybody at the expense of yourself. Unless they are a god. In which case, smile, wave, and do whatever you can do make them happy without dying.”

“Yes, Persephone.” Nico is definitely mocking her now, although surprisingly she allows it.

“Good. Now, you should leave.” Persephone stands and brushes off her dress. “Wouldn’t want Hades revoking your free days now, would we?”

“Of course not. Thank you, lady.” He bows, just slightly, with a smile in his eyes. Persephone regards him coolly, but there is a tiny bit of warmth in the back of those brown eyes.

“You’re welcome. I shall see you tomorrow. I think Mother is stopping by; make sure not to get on her bad side, because unlike me, she will definitely transfigure you if you annoy her too much.”

The irony is considerable. 

Nico is just about to take his leave when Hades enters the room. He takes one look at the shattered mess surrounding the two of them, pinches the bridge of his nose, and turns on his heel to stride straight out again. He can be heard muttering as he walks, probably something along the lines of, “Why do I leave those two alone with each other?”

Persephone gives Nico a decidedly amused look and gestures to the exit. “Don’t forget your bowl. Goodbye.”

Nico frowns, then remembers and picks up the rich, red bowl. He thanks her and leaves the room, and with him goes my attention.

The bowl is eventually placed on a rather prominent spot on the mantelpiece, and filled with a selection of brightly coloured pebbles and stones. Nico steps back, looking at it critically, before shaking his head and moving from the room. He comes back minutes later with, of all things, a pomegranate which has been sliced in half to reveal the seeds. He places this on top of the stone like one would a flower, nods approvingly, then promptly passes out on the sofa.

I do not understand the affection of the family of the Underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I converted you to the Persephone fandom yet?


	8. The Book beside the Armchair

The cottage by the sea is filled with all sorts of books, not all of them in English. Its occupant has a surprisingly large number of books written in Ancient Greek, as well as a decent selection in Italian, although they tend to be simpler. While Nico is fluent in speaking, he has to teach himself how to read and write it properly.

It is because Nico does not throw his books away. When he has finished a book he places it neatly back on its shelf, as per whichever organisational system he uses; even if he disliked it or loathed it or thought it was rubbish, it is always kept. I am honestly not entirely sure why he keeps them, but I think it is to make the walls look less bare, less empty. An empty house is not a home.

At eleven o’clock on Monday morning he opens the door to find Jason standing there with a four year old boy. The boy is just tall enough to reach the doorknob, with a mop of choppy brown hair and skin a few shades lighter; he is definitely Piper’s son. His blue eyes come straight from Jason, however, as does the serious way he looks up at Nico when he opens the door.

“Hello,” Jason says with a smile. “Brendan, this is my friend Nico. Nico, this is Brendan. Say hello.”

Nico looks down at Brendan. Brendan looks up at Nico.

“You look scary,” says Brendan.

“Do I? I can jump from behind the door if you like,” says Nico.

“That’s not scary,” says Brendan.

“Neither am I,” says Nico.

Brendan nods approvingly and toddles in, peering around Nico’s legs to look inside the cottage by the sea. Jason catches Nico’s bewildered gaze and smiles widely. He’s enjoying this, and judging by Nico’s exasperated sigh, Nico knows.

“Come in,” Nico says, turning and leading the way in, Brendan jogging along behind him. The boy looks around seriously, taking in the walls, the books, the fire burning in the hearth.

“How are you?” Jason asks, kneeling down to take off Brendan’s coat and, yes, little teddy bear earmuffs.

“No different,” says Nico, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of biscuits. He offers one to Brendan, who takes two and stuffs one in his mouth. A noise comes from the small child, which could either be ‘fangs rule’ or ‘thank you’.

“I’m going to take that as a good thing,” Jason says, taking one with a nod of thanks. “That’s new; where did it come from?”

He’s pointing towards the ruby bowl that Persephone had given Nico four days ago. Nico mentions as much.

“It’s old,” is the first thing Jason comments on. Then, “Why is there a pomegranate on it?”

“Why not?”

“Nico,” says Brendan, tugging on Nico’s pant leg. “Give me a cookie.”

“Brendan, use your manners.”

“Mister Nico, give me a cookie.”

Nico hides a smile and gives Jason an amused glance, who just sighs and waves his hand as if saying, ‘Whatever. Let the demon child do what he wants.’

Nico sits down on the armchair next to the couch, which is currently filled with Jason and Brendan. Despite the fact that technically it seats three, Brendan is four people all on his own, and he wriggles.

“I hope you have band aids,” Jason says, watching Brendan out of the corner of his eye and smiling at Nico wryly. “He’s… well, he’s accident prone.”

“He’s a demi-god,” says Nico. “Of course he’s accident prone.”

He pauses.

“Hemi-demi-god. Demi-god. What is he?”

“Demi-god,” says Jason. He looks as though he is about to start explaining why, but Nico just holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Brendan suddenly decides that he likes Nico, for one reason or another, and hops off the sofa to clamber onto Nico’s lap. “Hello!”

Nico looks down. “Hello.”

“Look at this,” says Brendan, before jumping off Nico and proceeding to start doing a series of incredibly animated jumps and spins. It almost looks like dancing.

“And, I can do this!” Whatever ‘this’ is, he presumably does it.

“I don’t know what you just did,” says Nico.

“Nico!” Jason says, but Brendan just laughs.

“That’s okay! Neither do I!” He laughs as though this is the funniest thing he has ever said, which to him, it probably is. “What can you do? Show me a trick! Dad shows me tricks.”

Nico taps his chin thoughtfully. “I might have a trick I can show you. But you have to help me, okay?”

“Okay.” Brendan climbs back onto Nico’s lap and stares at him seriously, blue eyes steady.

“What’s your favourite animal?”

Brendan thinks deeply. “I like dogs. No, squirrels. No, I like lions! But lions are really big. I like rabbits. We had a rabbit at home but he died.”

“Would you like to say hello?”

Brendan’s eyes widen. “You can do that?”

Nico nods, focuses, and suddenly there is a pull and little skitters can be heard from the corridor. A skeleton comes into the room, hopping up until it is next to the armchair. Brendan leans over and peers at it, gasping, then frowns.

“It doesn’t look like Death Bastard.”

Nico draws in a sharp breath, staring at Jason. “You named your rabbit Death Bastard?”

“Technically, his name is George,” says Jason, fidgeting and looking away. “Piper called him Death Bastard III one time, and it stuck. We’re getting another one in February who’s going to be called Death Bastard IV.”

“And they call me morbid.” Nico looks down at Brendan again. “You know your dad shouldn’t be calling rabbits Death Bastard, don’t you?”

“Mum told him not to,” says Brendan. “She says…” He frowns, trying to remember. “I don’t know. She said something, but then she laughed. She was joking! Anyway, is that a rabbit?”

“That was a rabbit,” Nico agrees. He beckons with one finger and the skeleton comes closer. Brendan looks as though Christmas has come extra early this year.

“Cooooooooool!”

“If Piper finds out…” says Jason. Then he stops. Then he shakes his head with a laugh and says, “Who am I kidding? She’d think it was awesome. Brendan, you don’t think this is scary?”

“No.” Brendan looks at Jason as though he’s completely stupid. “Can I touch him?”

Nico nods, and Brendan leans out to pet the Lepus Creepus, an awed expression on his face. The skeleton leans into his touch, bones jittering around, held together only through necromancy.

The skeleton curls then jumps up onto Nico’s lap, just next to Brendan. The boy smiles widely and laughs, before wrapping his arms around it and looking up at Nico. “You’re really cool, Mister Nico. Your tricks are the best.”

His attention is almost immediately drawn away and back to the skeleton, so only Jason is privy to witness the blush that runs across Nico’s cheeks.

“You like him,” he says later, helping Nico get lunch ready. It is nothing so extravagant this time, just sandwiches and more cookies. (Nico bakes them in very large batches; I have seen him get nearly seventy cookies from one bowl of dough.)

Nico doesn’t say anything, but he looks away, and Jason smiles wider.

“You do.”

“Of course I do,” Nico says, turning to face Jason. He’s smiling, honestly, darting glances across to where Brendan is engrossed in rearranging the living room. “He’s adorable.”

“I never thought I’d ever hear Nico di Angelo say the word adorable.” 

And if Jason’s hand brushes the back of Nico’s when he’s reaching for the butter, well, neither of them mention it. And if Nico ruffles Brendan’s hair when they come to leave, neither of them mention it. And if Brendan grabs Nico’s legs in a large hug, well. They don’t speak of that, either.

“Say goodbye to Nico, Brendan,” Jason says, fishing in his coat pocket for his car keys.

“But I don’t want to!” Brendan says, pouting as only four year olds can.

Nico drops down so that he’s kneeling beside the small boy, gesturing for him to come closer. “You can come back again on Thursday if you do something for me, okay?”

“Why? Why can’t I just stay now?” Brendan Grace, asking the pertinent questions.

“It’s delayed gratification.”

“What’s grat – gratica – that?”

“It’s when I give you something now, and something else later, and you don’t make Dad’s life hard.”

Brendan frowns. “So I get two things?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. What?”

Nico winks – he actually winks – and pulls out a book from the shadows. Or, at least, what I presume the shadows to be, because I have no idea where he took it from. I am omnipresent, not omniscient. “You get this.”

Brendan frowns, looking down at it. “I’m not a good reader,” he says.

“Don’t worry, neither am I,” Nico says seriously. “I couldn’t read in my own language until I was five. But I think you’re smarter than me. Can you see what this says?”

Brendan squints and glares fiercely at the letters. “B – L – U – E.” He pokes the word triumphantly and smiles at Nico. “B – L – U – E.”

“What does that spell?”

“I don’t know.”

“Alright. What colour is it written in?”

“Blue. It spells blue?”

“Exactly. Can you read the next word?”

Brendan frowns. “H – A – T. Hat?” At Nico’s nod, he says, “Blue hat?”

Nico looks up at Jason then smiles slightly at Brendan. “Do you think your dad can read the next two?”

“No. Dad’s silly.”

Jason splutters a little and Nico laughs. “You’re probably right. Your dad is silly. He’s friends with me. Should I read them, then, or do you want to try?”

“You do it.” Brendan pushes the book towards Nico’s chest. 

“Alright. This one is written in the colour green, and it’s spelt; G – R – E – E – N. That spells green. The next word is the same as before, so it says ‘green hat’.” Nico taps the book. “So, what is the title?”

“Blue Hat, Green Hat!” Brendan yells happily. “Look, the elephant is wearing a blue hat!”

“And what hat is the deer wearing?”

“Green!” Brendan jumps around a little and Nico offers him a high five, which he responds to enthusiastically. “I want it!”

“Brendan,” comments Jason. “Ask nicely.”

“I want it, please.”

Nico gives it to him with a little smile. “Now, if you’re good for Dad, and you ask him nicely, you might be able to come and see me again on Thursday. Then you can show me how much of the book you’ve read.”

“I want to read it with you.” Brendan clutches the book to his chest. “Can we do that?”

Nico looks up at Jason, who is smiling so widely that I am honestly surprised that his face hasn’t fallen off yet. He nods, and Nico replies, “We can, if that’s what you want. Now, it’s time to go. Goodbye, Brendan.”

“Bye, Nico!” Brendan waves frantically, even though he hasn’t moved at all.

“Thank you, Nico,” Jason says seriously, ruffling Brendan’s hair. “Don’t get into trouble.”

Nico nods at Jason, smiles at Brendan, and shuts the door.

Much later, he sits down in front of the hearth with another bloody plate of toast (I am not irritated. I am a goddess. I do not get irritated.) and opens his laptop. His email inbox has one new email in it. That makes a grand total of two.

He reads it aloud to me.

‘Nico,

Brendan hasn’t stopped talking about you, which I’m not surprised by. You never told me you were good with kids! Piper thinks I’m exaggerating, but honestly, I’m not. Anyway, it got me thinking. Hazel hasn’t shut up about you, either. I don’t want to push you – that’s the last thing I want to do – but I do want to tell you that she’s happy. She’s happy just knowing that you have company now, and she hasn’t stopped loving you just because she hasn’t seen you in forever. You won’t be making her unhappy by seeing her, which I think is the root of the problem. You’ll be making her the happiest woman alive. 

Frank came up to me the other day and asked me to tell you that he wants you to see Hazel. More specifically, he wants you to meet your niece. He also said something about myths and magic, which I didn’t understand, but apparently it was important. I’m sorry. 

I don’t want to push you. But if you make a decision, please tell me. See you on Thursday.

Jason.’

Nico shuts the laptop, places it on the coffee table, and leans back. He stares at the ceiling for a long while, fingers drumming on the side of the armchair and occasionally shifting position; the perks of ADHD. Eventually, he gets up, turns the lights off, stokes the hearth with a smile, and goes to bed.

The cottage by the sea is silent, but for the crackling of the fire. It is dark, but for the glow of the coals and, oddly, the red shine of the porcelain bowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some gratuitous Brendan. The book he is reading is ‘Blue Hat, Green Hat’ by Sandra Boynton, who is not me and therefore it isn’t mine either.   
> Hazel is coming. Promise.  
> Thank you for the comments, they made my day! (I know, I know, they were posted a bazillion years ago but I just noticed.) Muito obrigado!


	9. Hazel

The cottage by the sea is many things, but chief among those is that it is lonely. In the past fifteen years it has only seen two faces; that of myself, and its occupant. However, that number has extended to four in the past month, and so will extend to five.

Or, to some, six.

Jason visits twice after his last email. He dutifully arrives with Brendan on Thursday, who is all kinds of excited about seeing Nico again. They read ‘Blue Hat, Green Hat’, and Brendan discovers that his new favourite thing to say is “Oops!”

Jason then drops by on Monday morning briefly to have morning tea (brownies) and a chat (which, to be honest, is mostly ‘These brownies are delicious’, and ‘They weren’t even my favourite food before’, and ‘Do you have any Tupperware?’).

“Are you shy?” he asks bluntly at one point. “Or is it just me? Because I seem to do all of the talking, but I’ve never seen you be particularly against it.”

Nico shakes his head and smiles a little, reassuringly. “It’s not you. I just don’t talk much. My mother had this saying, ‘You have two ears and one mouth. Use them in that proportion.’ I was… I would never shut up when I was a kid, so there’s a lot of listening to make up for.”

“Fair point. I haven’t met a kid who didn’t like the sound of their own voice.” Jason gave him a thoughtful look. “Is it just that, or is there another reason?”

“Just that.”

Jason shrugs, accepting this response, and goes back to worshipping the brownies. He leaves at a little past eleven, saying, “Let me know about Hazel, okay?”

“I will,” Nico promises, and retreats back into the cottage by the sea.

This disruption to his routine means that he must go shopping in the afternoon, so he decides to have lunch in town and do the shopping afterwards. From this point on, I only know that which he has told me.

I shall say this now: I do not know a lot about the happenings of that Monday. All I know is what Nico has said to me, and he was only at his most open long after the events. The man of the cottage by the sea is not talkative after trials, nor is he responsive to questioning. He acts as a soldier does; a brief description, enough for the audience to understand the precise events, but nothing which goes into detail. Nothing of his mental state, his emotional response. No opinions, no inferences unless it is directly useful. Facts, plans of action, and nothing more.

Directly afterwards, however, in the brief period in which he is still in shock or afraid or suffering from the emotions roused in him, he will talk. It is a desperate kind of relief, a way of taking the burden off his shoulders and desperately seeking comfort. It is a retreat. It is not an emotional opening, it is a response dictated by stress and the desire for understanding.

I have not seen the man of the cottage by the sea suffer so much in as short a period in the last fifteen years. I hope I will never have to again.

That said, these are the happenings of one afternoon.

Nico leaves his house at twelve o’clock on his motorbike. He takes with him his shopping list, his wallet, and his helmet. He returns with all three at half past one. In that hour and a half, something inconceivable happened. 

He eats lunch in town. I am not entirely sure what he ate, but from his previous routines it can be assumed that he either eats a late brunch at a café on the corner of High Street and Fenton Way, or a proper lunch at a Chinese place a few streets down. Nico enjoys Chinese food, although he often tells me that the American version has nothing on the original. Yet he still eats it. I do not understand the man of the cottage by the sea.

He finishes his meal, pays the bill – at least, I hope he does – and walks out, holding the door open behind him for a woman entering.

“Nico?” His thoughts are like cotton wool, so it takes him a moment before he looks up at the woman and registers the words.

“Yes?” he asks, not recognising her. “Can I help you?”

“Nico? It’s really you?”

He frowns. “Do I… do I know you?”

He looks at her. She is taller than him, ever so slightly, with brown skin and dark brown hair. She wears semi-professional clothes, although she looks pregnant. His gaze moves higher.

She has golden eyes.

It hits him like an anvil falling from a skyscraper.

“Ha - Hazel?”

His voice cracks halfway, shock coursing through his veins. His heartbeat pounds, filling his ears, and although he thinks Hazel (not Hazel it can’t be Hazel) says something, he can’t hear it.

Hazel reaches for him and in that one instant, he breaks. He staggers back, turns, and races back to where he parked his motorbike. Ten minutes later, he is staggering back into the cottage by the sea, his face paler than milk and eyes blown wide. 

He collapses in front of the hearth and within seconds, I manifest next to him.

“Nico? Nico, what is wrong?”

“It’s not her, it can’t be,” he croaks, shaking like a leaf. “I didn’t even – I couldn’t – she was – I didn’t know!”

It explodes from him like a dam bursting its walls, and he shatters into a million fragments. I reach for him, but too slow, and only manage to save a few errant emotions; a wail, a sigh through the wind, a gem, a knife twisting in his chest. 

The earth beneath the cottage is trembling, shaking the foundations and rattling the windows. I look up, and there is dust falling from the ceiling. In his shock, in his terror, in his grief, Nico is more of a son of Hades than he is in the Underworld every day. The few flowers he leaves around the house wilt, the fruit in the fruit bowl blackens, and I can feel the uncontrollable aura of death resonating out from his tiny frame.

And he is tiny. He discarded his coat onto the floor and is kneeling down, his hands buried in his hair and his shoulders shaking like a reed in a thunderstorm. His entire form in concentrated on one point, like a drawing done in one-point perspective, and he seems to shrink and swell out at the same time. His magical response is growing, increasing from his body, but he himself draws in.

“Nico. Nico, what is wrong?”

He gasps for air. “It was – but it can’t have been – I didn’t – ”

“Calm down. It’s okay, it’s okay.” I move forward and touch him lightly on the shoulder. He flinches as though he has been struck, and I pull back instantly. “It’s alright. I’m here, you’re fine. Take slow, deep breaths. Come on, breathe with me.”

He pulls in a shuddering breath as he attempts to match my breathing patterns, and slowly he calms down. The cottage by the sea no longer shakes by its bones, although there is an occasional shiver that unerringly matches his own.

“It was Hazel,” he says, bowing his head and clenching his fists. “It was Hazel, and… I couldn’t even recognise her!”

“Oh, Nico…”

He stands up abruptly and slams a hand out. There is an ominous crumble from somewhere beneath the cottage, and he clenches it into a fist. “And now I’ve gone and made it worse! How could I not recognise her? How could I?! She’s my sister!”

He storms out of the room and the door slams. I move over to stand at the window, watching as he strides out into the snow. His coat lies on the floor, abandoned.

I watch idly as he wears himself down, spinning around and causing cracks in the earth to form. Geokinesis is a powerful magic, one which leaves its mark far more often than others. Nico’s way of dealing with things is to bury them deep, but his immediate reactions are devastating and more often than not, leave permanent reminders.

He crouches down in the snow, exhaustion setting in, and I see him raise a hand to rub at one eye before his shoulders droop and his form turns to jelly.

Half an hour later, the cottage by the sea is once again occupied. Nico is quiet, cold; both metaphorically and literally. He goes about his chores with the efficiency of the dead, focused, and ignores everything else. I resign myself to his withdrawal and sit silently on the armchair, watching the flames of the hearth with one eye and the man of the cottage by the sea with the other.

At ten past seven he kneels down beside the armchair, following my gaze to the flames. We sit there in silence.

He relaxes, slightly, and his head rests on the arm of the chair. I gently run my fingers through his hair and his eyes close, a soft sigh escaping him.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, my lady,” he says quietly.

“I came here of my own accord and I chose to see it. Hush.”

The flames warm the house and soon Nico is dozing lightly, leaning against the side of the chair. When it nears nine I shake him awake, and he blinks blearily up at me.

“You should get some rest in a proper bed.”

He nods, gets to his feet, and promptly falls against the chair again, barely catching himself. I smile fondly and take his arm, helping him get his feet before leading him to where I know his bedroom to be.

I have not been inside his room. It is not my place and I recognise it as a fortress of security. Yet, Nico doesn’t stop me as I open the door and help him sit down on the covers.

His room is dark, although there are large windows just above where his bed hits the wall. More bookshelves (Do they ever stop, I wonder?) line the walls and are interspersed with pictures. One of Venice, one of New York, one which presumably is a rendition of the palace of the Underworld. It is oddly empty, although I know Nico only spends time in here to sleep.

His Stygian iron sword rests against a cabinet. I have seen him take it back and forth from the Underworld every day, but never seen it simply being. It always looks as though it is going to be needed, but here, it just seems like another ornament on the mantelpiece that is the cottage by the sea.

“Thank you,” he says drowsily, and manages to make it to the pillows before falling asleep again.

I smile, turn the light out, and shut the door.

I have never been a mother. I have a large family, and I am the goddess of the hearth and home as well, but I have never had children. Yet, when I watch over the man of the cottage by the sea, something tells me, “This is what having children is like.” The worry, the fondness, the amused bemusement that comes with his rambling; all of my actions towards him have been building up for twenty years and now, I think, we understand each other.

But what intrigues me the most about Nico di Angelo is how oblivious he is to family. He draws people to him, creates a circle of family and friends, and yet he does not consider them as such. For him, family is a fragile thing. Sometimes I wonder if he is even aware that he thinks this. At least from his actions, it is obvious, but there are so many more things to take into consideration.

He has a family, who give him presents on Christmas and talk about brownies and put him to bed. The sooner he realises this, I think, the sooner he will come to accept that he is not alone. Even with his isolation, his self-imposed exile, he is not alone and he cannot remain so for much longer.

I just hope that he does realise it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you’ve all had quite enough sunshine and rainbows, time to up the ante.  
> On another note, where did all these comments and kudos (kudoses? how can plural) come from? Do people review for small children, is that it? I knew introducing Brendan was a good idea. But seriously, I’m sitting here grinning like a lunatic. You guys have the nicest things to say, I swear. Thank you!


	10. The Chill upon the Air

The man of the cottage by the sea maintains the metaphorical radio silence for two weeks. He goes up and down from the Underworld, works diligently and for longer hours than normal, and spends as much time away from the cottage as possible. He does not go into town on Mondays. Perhaps that is to be expected.

Sometimes, if he arrives back at the cottage by the sea early after working, he will hear a knock on the door and a worried voice call out, “Nico?”

On Mondays, he makes sure to busy himself elsewhere.

One evening, he returns to find a thermos and a note set on the doorstep. He eyes them warily, then picks them up, reading the note aloud as he opens the door and moves in to stoke the hearth.

“Nico, I don’t know what happened, but you can talk to me,” he reads. “Hazel has been freaking out lately and I think you might have something to do with it. Please, I want to help both of you but I can’t if neither of you will talk to me. Jason.”

He scrunches the note up in his hands and tosses it into the fireplace. “Yeah, thanks a lot, Jason,” he says bitterly. “None of this would have happened if you weren’t such a stubborn, loyal, idiot.”

It would, I think, have been wise for Nico to seek out Jason before assuming the situation. However, Nico di Angelo has always been one to run from his problems, which I am positive will end in his undoing, and therefore there is only so much that I can say to make him feel better.

I leave him to his despair and search for the only other hearth that I have frequented recently: that of Jason and Piper.

-

It is quarter past seven when the hearth glows in the Grace and McLean household. 

Jason doesn’t appear to be present, but Piper is sitting on the sofa with her laptop on her lap, frowning at the screen and reaching for her phone. She doesn’t look up, instead answers the call and begins to argue heatedly with the person on the other end of the line. She continues working on the laptop, presumably drawing up facts and statistics and leaving the person on the other end a sobbing mess by the time she hangs up.

There comes a cry from upstairs, and she gets up, a resigned expression on her face. Her kaleidoscope eyes are very expressive, and the expression is belied by the amount of fond love and care in them.

I do not like to meddle in human or demigod affairs. As a general rule, I prefer to allow them to proceed of their own will, because I vastly prefer to be surprised by their ingenuity than force events. 

So I sit and watch, waiting to see what Piper and Jason intend to do. 

Piper returns downstairs twenty minutes later, having put little Rebecca to bed. She is joined shortly by Jason, who comes into the living room with an exhausted sigh.

“I swear, I don’t know why I do it,” he says, rolling his shoulders and collapsing back onto the couch. “I thought being a training instructor would be a temporary thing.”

Piper laughs. “You say that every time a kid beats you. Who was it today?”

“Flora, one of the Ares kids. I can’t feel my arms anymore.” Jason turns to look at Piper’s screen. “What are you dealing with at the moment?”

“Some idiot politician,” Piper says, waving a hand dismissively. “They never look up their facts, it was easy. Oh, and I heard from Hazel earlier.”

Jason sits up straighter. “What did she say?”

“She’s dealing with it. I talked to Frank as well, and it turns out that she bumped into Nico – literally – two weeks ago. She’d been looking for a possible demigod, but it turns out that the town she was searching in was one where Nico was.”

Jason freezes. “That’s not possible.”

Piper nods, leaning her head on the palm of her hand and frowning across at her phone. “I was surprised as well. I mean, it’s possible, but I’d never think… of all the coincidences.”

“What happened? Wouldn’t Hazel be happy?”

“Nico fled.” Piper looks angry. “Hazel said that at first she barely recognised him, and then when she did he made a break for it.”

Jason drops his head into his hands. “Nico, you idiot.”

“How could he do that to her?” Piper asks. “He has to know how much she misses him!”

“I don’t know,” Jason says. “I thought he was warming to the idea. He was scared, I think. But… I don’t know. Hazel’s okay, though, right?”

Piper nods, gathering her hair up into a ponytail. It would appear to be something of a nervous tick, as she continues to play with a braided strand as she thinks. “I think she’ll handle it. Hazel’s strong. Just… why would Nico run? How could he do that to Hazel? I don’t know much about him, but I remember that he really did love his sister. Why would he run?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand Nico. I might go talk to Frank, though, over at Camp Jupiter.” Jason frowns. “He and Nico got on well, or at least well for Nico’s standards. I’ll see if he has an opinion.”

“You just want to go hang out with Frank,” Piper teases, although she continues twirling her braid.

“I plead the fifth.”

“When are you going?”

“When’s best for you?”

Piper consults her schedule. “I’m travelling from Thursday to Monday, so Tuesday would be the best. I’ll be back to look after Brendan and RaRa.”

“Alright. I’ll take Tempest over there in the morning and be back for dinner. I’ll ring Frank, see if he’s free. If Hazel’s okay with it I might speak to both of them.”

Piper shakes her head and sighs. “I’ll be glad when this business is over with. I just want you and Hazel and Frank to be happy.”

Jason presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Nico’s slipperier than an eel. There’s not much anyone can do if it’s against what he wants.”

“That’s what worries me.” Piper shuts her laptop and flops down to rest her head in Jason’s lap. “I still think we should tell Percy and Annabeth.”

Jason shakes his head. “Trust me, that’s the opposite of what Nico wants.”

Sometimes I wonder what reason Piper believes Nico left for, all those years ago. Which reason was the one that broke the camel’s back, so to speak. Piper is a terribly perceptive woman, and although she was perhaps not quite as much when she was younger, she was by no means oblivious. 

A cold draft blows through the house, and Jason gets up to investigate it. It is not often that the house is plagued by the cold, particularly not with my blessing, which makes me suspicious.

The hearth burns stronger, but my presence vanishes, and I return to the cottage by the sea.

Nico has not yet returned, but by eight-thirty he is sitting in his armchair, glaring at the hearth as though it had murdered his sister.

Then, he stands and moves over to the mantelpiece, where he takes down the bowl that Persephone gifted to him. He removes the contents and stares down at it, frowning. He seems to be contemplating something, although what precisely remains to be seen.

He runs a finger along the red glaze, then stands up and searches through the books on the bookshelves until he finds several on mythology. He places them on the floor, puts the bowl on top, and then heads off towards his bedroom.

Strangely, he comes out of the room at a little past midnight and begins pacing. His hair is mussed and his t-shirt stained with sweat. A nightmare, perhaps.

He prods at the flames of the hearth and sits down, head in hands and breathing erratic. He seems distressed, and preoccupied, so much that he is unable to remain in one place for any reasonable period of time, and shortly begins pacing once again.

Eventually, Nico collapses onto the couch and throws a pillow over his head. With a final sigh, he drifts off into a restless sleep, one hand stretched out towards the hearth. It comforts him, I think. From what I understand, Nico has no fondness for fire, but he does enjoy the warmth and the ideas and symbols it represents.

There is a chill on the air that night, and when he wakes he is shivering and almost certainly has a cold.

He is due to go down to the Underworld, but he continues to let out the most outrageous sneezes as he searches for his things. He buckles his sword belt on the wrong way, loses his coat twice, and ends up leaving his shoes untied because he cannot tie them without getting endlessly confused.

Persephone takes one look at him and wrinkles her nose. 

“I was not aware that demigods could fall prey to such a pathetic excuse for an illness.”

Nico looks up from where he is staring resolutely into the hearth, listening with half an ear to the reports of the dead. “Excuse me?”

“The common cold,” Persephone says. “I was unaware it was common among demigods as well.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sue your face for slander.”

Nico flushes. “I am. It’s just a cold.”

Persephone sniffs and turns, her white dress floating around her ankles and her hair trailing out, unbound. Persephone has always been a believer in the melodramatic. “If I see you sneeze, you are leaving.”

Nico nods, looking back towards the multitude of papers, reports and renovation briefings waiting for his attention. They will take weeks to get through, and possibly months to implement, given the ineptitude that is the dead. However, Nico is nothing if not hardworking. He spends the entire day sorting through them, filing and sometimes completing those which have yet to be finished – from what Nico has told me, the dead are far to apathetic and lethargic to bother with fine details, which is why very few make it to the Panel of Judgement. 

His work is interspersed with coughs and the occasional sneeze, which is actually amusing, although it really shouldn’t be. At one point, Persephone comes back into the room, causing Nico pull the most bizarre faces trying not to sneeze.

“Oh, honestly,” Persephone says. “Just go. I have eyes, I know you’re trying not to sneeze.”

“I am fine,” Nico says, a little harshly, and Persephone gives him a blatantly menacing look.

“Either you leave now, or I send you to talk to Melinoë again,” she threatens.

The speed at which Nico leaves is quite impressive, although he does linger a while to make sure that Persephone tells Hades the truth, rather than telling him that Nico was slacking off work. Not that it would be believable, but Persephone is… well, Persephone is unpredictable, which tends to bother people because it makes her difficult to trust, and Nico does not trust easily.

Honestly, I don’t think he trusts Persephone at all, no matter the uneasy truce they have developed over the years.

He sits down directly in front of the hearth, wrapped in a blanket and still wearing his coat. He looks ridiculous, but warm, which I suppose is the point. 

A week passes, and then Monday rolls around, and Nico rolls out of bed and onto the floor with a groan and a sniffle. He is just reaching the tail end of his cold, one that had left him lethargic and unable to stand for dizziness, but he has made a new friend: the tissue box.

He is getting ready to go into town for the first time again for weeks when he hears a knock on the door. He tries to remain quiet to deter the visitor, until they call out;

“Nico?”

“Frank?!”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by two separate muses, minuiko and Markus Zusak; the former for her visual art and the latter for his literary art, the Book Thief. Minuiko is on tumblr and does gorgeous work, go check her stuff out if you haven't already. If you haven’t read the Book Thief yet either, you are missing out, go read it. Credit where credit is due ;)  
> Cross posted on ff.net under Bronwyn O'Reilly


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